You are the perfect Arthur to my Francis, and this is dedicated to you.

I don't have enough fancy words to tell you how much you mean to me.

Written to What Lies Beneath by Breaking Benjamin.

As the nation of love, it makes sense that I would know all kinds, and I do. Paternal, fraternal, familial, romantic, friendship and of course, unrequited. I wish I didn't have to know the last. I wish that whomever had named me had been a bit more specific. France: the country of romantic love.

That would be a dream, constantly adored, and adoring. But no, instead I fight through the struggles of eternal parenthood with a child who thinks I don't understand or even acknowledge his existence (teenagers). I suffer through the constant make-ups, break-ups and hook-ups of my fragile circle of friends. We are countries after all; our allegiance belongs to the strongest political ally. I watch my brothers ague and tear each other apart. I watch the family I built for myself tear itself asunder. What can I do to stop them? I tried, but sadly, I was not the issue, and therefore could have nothing to do with the resolution no matter what I did.

And every day I can look out of my empty window across that grey channel and look at you in all your sooty, smutty glory. For all the polished valour you have brought to the world, for all the glory of civilization, I remember when you wouldn't use a flushing toilet. And you have brought me the most misery. I never wanted to be your enemy, but you never gave me any other option. I'm so tired of trying for you.

But love is a blind, fucking fool, and so I shall continue to look past your faults and obvious hatred of me. I shall continue to let you string me along like a lovesick dog. Love is a fool, and so am I. I cannot help but leap to be with you. I cannot stop my heart from breaking with every cruel word we exchange. I cannot stop your words from cutting into me like the blades I use to mangle my own flesh. But flesh doesn't stay mutilated for long, not ours any way. We are so alike. But the blood never comes and I am left to curse at the wall, the floor and the ceiling. Cursing God and heaven and hell. Cursing my country, myself, this planet, this life. But never you, England. Never you, Arthur.

You are wonderfully cruel to me, my dearest love. Too, too sweet in your inventive cruelty. The way you flaunt your own unrequited love at me. Of course you would fall for his boyish good looks and bumbling charm, but you could not have fallen for me? Of course not. You were even so mean spirited to ask me for advice. Lord only knows how much pride you had to swallow to do that.

I love that about you; your pride. But I love everything about you, and you know it.

So when idiot America wears you on his arm like a trophy, you smile at me as though you have won some wonderful prize over me. But it isn't you who has won, it is that fool, and he knows that he has won. He smirks at me when you aren't looking, my love. He knows that once he has had his fun, I will pick up the broken pieces of your heart and put them back together for you, hoping that my fingerprints will stay in the glue and that just maybe you could learn to love me back. Even a fraction of the way I love you would be enough. Just a crush. But you go back to him. You say your grumbling apologies and let him win you over with Hollywood smiles and innocent charm. You know how much innocence he lacks, my dearest, dearest love. From the bruises and the broken hearts and the way you sometimes limp. I know that he has been cruel to you. I know that you enjoy it. He lets me fix you so that he can break you again.

Like father like son, my dear. So is brother like brother. He learnt his wicked ways from you. Do you remember when I thought – sweet escape, sweet relief – that I may have loved a mortal? Dear Jeanne, who wished nothing more than the freedom of our beloved country, who wanted nothing more than a single victory over you.

Do you remember, my darling England, how you burnt her at the stake before my very eyes, and laughed? Because I do. I remember hating you for that. But the lines between hate and love are so easily blurred. And blur they did, and now I am once more in heady, delusional love with you.

How am I supposed to love you when you flaunt your love for that stupid America? How can I love you when you hold me in nothing but the highest contempt? I can only assume that my disgusting name forces me, in my idealist's nature to love you forever. I hate that I must love you, but I love you none the less. Every single breath I take is a misery because of you. I feel physical pain whenever I see you. And yet I inhale the cold winter air with secret relish because you are across that iron grey water, you are breathing the same air. I cannot help but hunger for the sight of you, in all your flawed glory, because it is you.

Do you remember our drunk follies, England? I do. I remember the times during your pirate days when you would be so drunk that you would fall into my lap, begging me to take you. Of course, I was weak. I never have been able to deny you anything. You don't remember our drunken encounters. I however, was not drunk, so I do remember. I remember how you pleaded with me in your coarse and colourful tongue for more. You wanted it hard and fast and sore. You wanted to keep your spine ramrod straight the next day with that cocky sneer on your face. The English vice has always been strong in you.

You never let me make love with you.

The times you may remember, the times that in a fit of pique, you took me. You were not drunk on liquor then, but power. You took me as hard as you wanted to be taken and then twice again. You are a harsh lover, my land of angels. What you don't know is that I am every bit the worthless whore you accused me of being; I did enjoy it, no matter how rough. It was you. The sting was sweet when it was you.

I treasure each moment that we held each other. Every second is locked in my heart, and when I am alone at night, I will call up images of your face and pretend that it is you below me, you above me.

It is you when I let whatever alcohol I can find drown the memories for a few hours of rest.

But you still haunt my dreams my love.

I wish I did not know this unrequited love, but I will know it still. I will hold my faithlessly long past memories dear. I will fix your broken heart and send you back. Even though every second is torture, it is bliss because of you.

I will continue to love you.

Guys, please not that whenever I write like this, it's personal shit that I just need to get aired. The right people know what's going on, but I just need to get it out.

NO. I am not cutting.